by Lia Lee
Lacey’s brow wrinkles in disappointment. “That doesn’t sound very sincere,” she says, taking a sip of her Tequila Sunrise through a straw. “Can you at least put a smile on your face? Honestly, girl, you could summon a snowstorm in July with that frosty mug of yours.”
I peel back my lips in a garish, exaggerated smile. “Is this better?” I say through gritted teeth. Lacey bursts out laughing, and my ventriloquist visage collapses as I join in. “This place is awesome, Lace. Thanks for bringing me; I’d have never set foot in such a classy joint without your intervention. It’s just been so long since I’ve had a night out, I guess I’ve forgotten how to enjoy myself.”
“You just need to loosen up. And the best way to do that is with another drink,” she says, signaling our server. She orders us another round, even though I’m only halfway through my Strawberry Mojito. I should take it easy. I still remember, at least the part when I regained consciousness, getting so “loosened up” at a frat party that I was sick for two days afterward. Booze and I did not as yet have a civilized relationship. “No more for me after this, Lace. You know how that ends, you were a witness.”
As the server scurries away with her empty glass, Lacey confronts me. “Just because it ended with you sleeping in a bathtub back then, doesn’t mean it has to happen that way now. You need more practice. How are you going to fit into big city life if you hang on to that over-the-hill-and-down-the-holler persona? You’re not in Kentucky anymore, Dorothy. Lose the coveralls and learn how to drink like a New York hooker in a pencil skirt.”
“Dorothy was from Kansas,” I correct her. “And I’m from Upstate New York. You make me sound like a hillbilly.”
Lacey grins and quirks her eyebrows upward. “Au contraire, a hillbilly you are not, my friend. If you were, you’d have been fucked over a hay bale by a couple of first cousins long before now.”
“That’s disgusting,” I say, wrinkling my nose, just as the server arrives with fresh drinks. I toss back what’s left in my glass to demonstrate my drinking skill, only to have the mint leaves slosh onto my upper lip. “Ugh.” I pass the tumbler to the server and wipe my lip with the back of my hand. Lacey laughs.
“Now that’s disgusting,” she comments, sliding the next one closer to me. “I’ll bet the hillbilly cousins could have taught you how to drink moonshine properly, along with how to have a little fun in the hay.”
“Why are you so obsessed with sex, Lace? I’ll get around to it when it’s right for me; when I meet the right person.”
“Waiting for Mr. Right, are we? Oh, please. Spare me the rainbows and unicorns. Just who do you think you’re going to meet hiding away in the basement of your non-paying job?” she says, glancing around the bar, presumably trawling for eligible males. “I can’t even remember the last time you were interested in a guy.”
I sip my drink carefully, hoping to make it last the rest of the evening, so my friend will quit plying me with booze and uncomfortable questions. She’s right. I’ve been so fixated on my studies and career I haven’t had time for guys. At least not the type we met in college. They were all just full of themselves, with their brains in their pants. “All Swedish, no finish,” as my Uncle Doug used to say. Except that he was referring to hockey when he said it.
“Well, there is someone I’m interested in...” I say cautiously. I probably shouldn’t tell Lacey a thing, knowing she’ll make a big hairy deal out of it; but maybe it will get her off my case.
Lacey sets down her second empty glass of the night. “Good God, I’ll alert the media. Who is it?”
I bow my head a little. “It’s embarrassing, really.”
“Aw c’mon, you can tell me.” Suddenly she changes tack and points a French-tipped fingernail at me. “Say, did you ever meet that gorgeous hunk of smoked sausage, the CEO guy who was in the paper? You’ve been on the job for two weeks now, right? You must have seen him in the hallways or something?”
Whew. Lacey’s like a sudden squall out at sea; changing direction with no warning. And somehow managing to triangulate right in on my thoughts. I look up to see her expectant expression, her pretty face framed by glowing blonde locks. I bet Bastian Kingsley would be interested in someone like her. Open and bubbly, broadcasting an easy lay.
“Uh, well...” I reply with a sheepish grin. “Actually, he’s the one I meant. I did meet him. Three times now to be exact.”
Lacey’s mouth forms a capital O. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so speechless.
“Mara Snow, you’ve been holding out on me,” she finally says. “When did this happen? What did he say? Is he as gorgeous up close and personal as he is in his pictures?”
I have to smile at her enthusiasm. I know she’s in my corner despite her sharp tongue and lewd jokes at my expense. She’s got my back no matter what. “As a matter of fact, he’s even more good looking in person. I was racing for the elevator, and he held the door for me. I didn’t know it was him until I stepped in.”
“And?” she asks, cycling her hands in a “more information” type of gesture.
“We introduced ourselves, and he reached over to straighten my collar. He has the most gorgeous brown eyes. When he looked at me, I felt hypnotized, like a mouse in the sights of a Cobra. I couldn’t look away, it was weird.”
“It’s chemical,” Lacey states. “The predator-prey response.”
I shake my head. “Whatever you call it, I thought my knees were going to give out. His hand brushed my cheek and—” I paused, swallowing hard. “It was like electricity flowed between us, Lace.”
Her eyes go wide listening to my tale. “I’ll bet. And this was only one time you met him? What about the others?”
I sigh and take a sip of my drink. It tastes better than the last one, for some reason. I skip over the incident outside the lab and move on to the latest encounter that I’m still trying to figure out. “Yesterday, I drove into the underground parking lot, and guess who happens to see me as I park Shirley, expelling her noxious fumes into the atmosphere?”
“No,” Lacey says, rolling her eyes in sympathetic embarrassment for me. “You’ve got to get rid of that thing, Mar.”
“I know, I know. But she’s all I’ve got. Mr. Kingsley comes up to me and asks why I don’t get a new car, and I say I can’t afford it as an unpaid intern. He acts as if he didn’t know that, and offers to find me some paid work, and... this is the bomb... says he might arrange to lease me a car from the corporate fleet.”
Lacey’s eyebrows practically disappear under the shadow of her blonde bangs. “Some paid work... what kind of work? Was he propositioning you?”
“Lacey! He was trying to be nice!” I say, indignant.
Lacey smiles and leans back in her chair. “Okay, if you say so. But it sounds to me like he wants more than your gratitude. Just think what he might offer if you made an effort to... run into him more often, if you know what I mean.”
I feel a burning sensation in my chest. She’s got this all wrong. I did nothing to encourage Bastian Kingsley into offering me a damn thing. “I would never do that, Lacey Strudwick, and you know it. You’ve got the monopoly on panty currency, not me.” Again, I’ve rendered her speechless. Twice in the same night. This has to be some kind of Guinness record.
But Lacey’s used to audience hecklers, and always has a comeback.
“I agree with that remark,” she says, toasting her glass to me. “Touché. But don’t knock it til you try it. It’s one commodity whose value never goes down. And I’m here to tell you that you should try spending a little of it on yourself. You’re missing out on a lot of serious fun locked away in that ivory, virgin tower of yours.”
As I try to formulate some sharp retort, two figures cast a shadow over our table. “Hello ladies, mind if we join you?” I look up to see a couple of twenty-something guys standing over us, clearly optimistic that Lacey and I will appreciate their company.
“By all means,” Lacey replies, our conversation forgotten in the face of read
y male attention. I roll my eyes and paste a begrudging smile on my face. They’re not bad looking, and about our age. It makes sense that they’d be interested in a table of two unaccompanied females. We didn’t exactly post a “Do Not Disturb” sign over our heads.
“Thanks,” the taller, blond guy says. He looks like he could be Lacey’s older brother. “I’m Troy, and this is Adam,” he continues, gesturing to his friend who sports dark hair and one of those sexy-scruff beards.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Adam says.
“Likewise. I’m Mara,” I say with a polite nod.
“Have a seat,” Lacey says, clearly interested in having Troy take the chair next to hers. Who said opposites attract? They look like a brother-sister singing duo. Troy slips into the seat indicated, and Adam slides in next to me.
“Been here long?” Adam asks, making himself comfortable.
“Not really. We’re just enjoying a little girl talk. It’s been a long week.” I’m hoping he’ll take it as a hint that we’re not interested, but it seems Lacey has no such opinion as she talks animatedly with Troy.
“I’ll drink to that. Buy you another?” He points to my half-empty Mojito.
“Um, I’m good, thanks.”
“Aw, come on. The night is young. We were just about to order shots,” he says, gesturing to his friend. “Have one with us.”
I open my mouth to utter a “No, thank you,” but Adam is already tapping Troy on the arm with one hand. “Shots,” he reminds Troy.
“Right on, man. Join us?” Troy asks Lacey. She nods in acceptance, apparently for both of us. I heave a sigh of defeat and avert my eyes from the disaster-in-the-making at our table. If these two think they can pick us up for the price of a Tequila shot, they’ve got another thing coming. I scan the entire room as if fascinated by its architectural details, but stop short as I see two silhouettes seated at the main bar.
The woman sips a tall drink and seductively crosses her long legs as she converses with her date. The moody bar lighting illuminates her light-colored hair, but even in partial shadow I can tell she’s older than me, perhaps thirty-five or so. The man is also obscured by darkness, but there’s something familiar about that tailored suit and broad shoulders. He lifts his drink and looks out across the room in my direction. The angle is just enough for the overhead lamps to reveal his face, and I suck in a sharp breath.
It’s Bastian.
I swallow hard, willing myself to tear my eyes away but, somehow, I’m paralyzed. The woman reaches out and touches him on the thigh as he stretches casually on his barstool. A wave of something skitters over me. Who is she? Why is she allowed to touch him? Is she someone from the C-Suite? Are they a couple?
As I wrestle with my emotions, he lifts his gaze to meet my brazen stare. Busted! I quickly look away, flumes of heat spurting up my neck and onto my cheeks, like the Fountains of Bellagio. Oh. My. God. He saw me gawking at him like a mannerless idiot. Perhaps Lacey wasn’t far off the mark when she called me a hillbilly. All that’s missing is a trail of drool down my chin.
Chapter Eight
Bastian
Fancy Meeting You Here
My date is saying something about her acquisitions editor, and some new manuscript that’s just come their way, but I’m bored shitless. Her words fade into a low-grade hum as my eyes focus on the shadowed features of the girl across the room. The lighting is purposely dim to minimize flaws and mask details, but I don’t think there could be any imperfections even if a high-powered searchlight was directed at her.
She’s stunningly sexy in that summery little frock with delicate shoulder straps, the skin of her arms and neck no longer disguised by the conservative office attire of long-sleeved, high collared blouses and jackets. What is she doing here? This club has a fifty-dollar cover charge and frequented mostly by Wall Street wannabes with more cash than charm.
Mara.
She’s looking straight at me, and it sends a welcome jolt of arousal straight to my cock, the mental movie of my bathroom fantasies starting to roll. Then she looks away and bows her head a little. No, don’t stop, baby. Damn, she’s fucking gorgeous in that dress and with her dark hair loose around her shoulders. I want to touch it, feel its silky length sliding through my hands, trace the line of her delicate collarbone with my fingertips.
“Bastian?” A hand touches my thigh. I reluctantly turn my head back to the woman sitting next to me. Belinda James, managing editor of Eros Publishing. Thirty-eight, five-foot five-inches, one hundred and twenty-two pounds. Divorced, no children. Her stats roll like movie credits in my mind. I’m very good at memorizing data, and the material that Liam Dunnigan presented to me was no exception.
She publishes erotic literature. I guess he thought that would turn me on, but I feel nothing. I watch her glossy, peach colored lips moving but it seems like a digital animation. The sound comes out, but the motions don’t quite match. “Yes?”
She smiles. “You seem a million miles away. Your mind on one of your overseas projects, I’m guessing?”
I return the smile and take a sip of my drink. A project? Not exactly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be thinking about work,” I say in apology.
“That’s quite alright, you have a multi-billion-dollar corporation riding on your shoulders. All I have to worry about is correcting typos and filing submissions into YES or NO piles. Hardly on the same level,” she says with a light laugh.
She tilts her blonde head in an alluring manner. Belinda’s a good-looking woman, accomplished and established in her industry; not to mention age-appropriate. So why am I not interested? I remind myself it’s only my first date. It might take a while to get into the habit again.
Her words echo in my head. Hardly the same level. Yes. A different level indeed from a fresh-faced, recently graduated intern with a passion for rocks, who has a whole world of experiences, ambitions, and dreams yet ahead of her. Whose resume is still being written, instead of a re-released, four-page historical novel. That excites me more than any porn paperback ever could.
“Well, it sounds much safer than my line of work. I envy you, having complete control over what and whom you choose to work with and the quality of your end product. No TRIF stats to worry about or a NCSO Safety Officer dogging your every step like the grim reaper. I can’t say the same.”
Belinda looks a bit put off at my stream of industry-related jargon but rallies an understanding smile. “I suppose not.” She stirs her cocktail with purpose, apparently drawing a blank for a response.
I have a feeling this date has reached the equivalent of the “saggy middle” in a first-draft manuscript.
“Will you excuse me?” I ask, setting down my now-empty glass.
“Of course. Hurry back.”
I nod and slide off the padded barstool, intending to make my way to the men’s room, but I can’t help throwing a glance toward Mara’s table as I move through the crowd. She’s not alone. Two interlopers have appeared on the scene, positioning themselves like opposing lions seeking dominion over the pride; jockeying for the privilege of impregnating the lionesses for generations to come. I’ve watched it happen on the African savannah and know it doesn’t end well. Annoyance burns in my chest. Neither of them is fit to graze on the same grass as a creature of perfection like Mara Snow. My feet change trajectory on instinct.
As I approach the table, Leo1 and Leo2 suddenly get up from their chairs. That’s it, whelps. Step aside. They move off toward the shooter bar, leaving the girls unguarded. Mara’s head swivels in my direction, a look of both amazement and relief in those lovely jewel-toned eyes. “Good evening, Mara. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Mr. Kingsley,” she says, almost as a question, her lips curving into a tentative smile. “Not at all, I, we, were just having a few drinks,” she continues, gesturing to her friend. I spare a polite acknowledgment to the girl. She’s attractive too, but what blonde twenty-something isn’t, in the empirical sense? This one’s no innocent cub, however.
She’s giving me the “blow jobs for beer” look, which will probably work wonders on the two jerks who just left, but it barely registers on my jaded, discerning sensors. I prefer my women less obvious; more of a challenge than the shallow climb to the summit of Mount Skank.
“Hello. Bastian Kingsley,” I say with a nod.
“This is my friend and roommate, Lacey Strudwick,” Mara says.
“Hel-lo,” Lacey says, extending her hand in a ‘kiss my ring’ fashion. I stifle a chuckle and accept a handshake. “I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Kingsley.”
Her voice is low and somewhat gravelly, the air of a performer about her. Under other circumstances, I might be intrigued.
“Have you now? Don’t believe everything you hear, and only half of what you read,” I say with my signature, emotionless smile. I’ll save the real one for better things. I turn back to Mara. God. She’s like a drink of water in this stifling desert of parched, corporate corpses; a graceful crane at the edge of an oasis, fending off poisonous scorpions and treacherous reptiles. “Are you finding the service here satisfactory? If not, I’ll have a word with the manager. He’s a professional acquaintance.” I feel Lacey gaping in awe even without looking at her.
“Oh, no... no. Everything’s fine. This place is amazing. I’d never have dreamed of coming here if it weren’t for Lacey. She’s in the entertainment business,” Mara says by way of excuse, as though deeming the club somehow above her social station. My mind briefly queries what sort of entertainment her friend supplies, but I don’t want the conversation veering away from Mara. That may not be possible unless I lure her aside from the electric blonde and the two trip-switch dudes just waiting to capitalize on her energy. I see them returning from the bar with a tray of shooters. Christ, grow the fuck up, assholes.
“Well, I’m glad you’ve found time to relax and enjoy yourself outside of work. It’s good to unwind and de-stress. It keeps you healthy,” I say, preparing to make an exit. “And I like my employees to stay healthy.” Mara smiles and nods. If she perceived any double entendre from that statement, she didn’t show it. My guts churn at the thought of abandoning her to these incompetent predators; or worse, watch her succumb to their witless tactics and potentially leave with one of them. “Why don’t you stay and have a drink with me before you go? I’ll be at the main bar.” I motion my head ever so slightly, already thinking about how to vacate Belinda’s chair. “And tell your server to send me your tab,” I add, glancing between the two girls to make sure they know the gesture is meant to include the entire table. I’m not above stealing my competition’s thunder by flashing my wallet. With the added benefit of making the aspiring “players” look like chumps in the process.